The other day I felt like I was on an episode of Sesame Street that went like this:
Elmo: Hello boys and girls! Today’s magical number is the number 35! We have a special guest today and guess what! She is 35 years old WHICH IS THE SAME AS THE MAGIC NUMBER!!
Me: Thanks Elmo, I feel old and look it. You’re 50 this year and haven’t aged a bit. But maybe that’s because you’re a furry puppet…
Snuffy: Oooh and you are also 35 weeks pregnant too! Isn’t that amazing?
Me: No. There is nothing amazing about being so goddamn big and heavy. In fact, I’m almost as big as you and you’re a woolly mammoth…
Big Bird: Aaaaaand you have 35 wonderful days left until your due date! Isn’t that exciting everybody? Let’s sing a song!
Me: No let’s not, you oversized, genetically modified, yellow chicken. I’m totally not ready and the thought of watching Sesame Street all over again fills me with doom…
Elmo, Snuffy and Big Bird ignore me and break out into cheery song to the tune of “Elmo’s Song”…
This is the song about number thirty-five,
By now you’re no longer in the prime of your life!
La la la, la la la laaa
Thirty-five weeks have already passed you by,
Feeling so fat, all you do is eat and cry!
La la la, la la la laaa
There’s only thirty-five days till you’re due,
Then life will revolve around sleep and poo!
La la la, la la la laaa, that’s Elmo’s song!
[Yes I know it’s a shit song, what do you expect from a bunch of Muppets?]
With under 35 days to go now*, I feel like I still have time to get ready but due dates are not exact and in reality anything could happen. A little “what if..?” thundercloud hovers over my head, occasionally drenching me with the worry of getting caught out by an early arrival. This is being exacerbated by the fact that the bathroom is being redone and I’ve managed to employ the world’s slowest builders, who seem intent on finishing very close to when I’m due. They have assured me that I won’t be early which fills me with confidence because obviously if anyone knows anything about my internal pipeworks it’ll be the plumbers…
I just need more time. Time to sort the house out, time to sort through all the baby stuff I’ve dragged in from the garage or have been given, time to pack the hospital bag and order all the stuff I still need to get, time to get myself ready…
But can you ever be ready?
You can plan ahead. Get the house ready. Buy and set up everything on your baby list. Strengthen your mind and body with baby psychology books, relaxation exercises and kegels. But I guarantee you still won’t be ready. Nothing can prepare you for the seismic shock to your body, the emotional hurricane, and the harsh adjustment to the new “normal”.
As I get closer to the due date, anxiety, along with the baby, is kicking in. People gently reassure me that second time around it’ll be easier and quicker but it still doesn’t make labour any less terrifying. Add in the general worries of not being able to cope with two kids, wondering how Mishty will react and the prospect of facing a lonely maternity leave and you have the perfect recipe for a panic attack.
Physically my body is slowing down. Life is becoming a tiring struggle punctuated by random fanny twinges, sudden bladder pressures, back ache and the inability to sit comfortably. Last time I just wanted to get the baby out. This time I just want it to keep it in as I desperately try to cling on to life as I know it and enjoy the calm before the storm for a teeny bit longer. I tell myself to think positive thoughts and keep my fingers crossed. But for now, I’m definitely keeping my legs crossed too.
*This was true at the time of writing but then I got distracted and forgot to finish this so now I’m less than 20 days away. Arghhh!!!
Mishty in my belly 